


These Thoughts Inside

by MileyCyprus_Hill



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2, rdr2 - Fandom
Genre: Depression Warnings, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, and you try to cheer him up, arthur is feeling very down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MileyCyprus_Hill/pseuds/MileyCyprus_Hill
Summary: Imported from my Tumblr blog:Inspired by a post from @wholesomecowboy regarding Arthur being depressed and sleeping for 18 hours. So, it’s a story about Arthur going through a depressive spell and he shuts himself in his tent. At first, you assume he’s exhausted from a long day’s work and lack of sleep. So, you check on him periodically. (Reader is somewhat gender neutral, there’s just a few mentions of skirt-wearing and feminine physique but overall neutral I’d say.)
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader, Arthur Morgan/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 89





	These Thoughts Inside

It’s high noon at Clemen’s Point, and you sit yourself at a table across John. The summer heat and humidity has caused a delay in chores, as it’s much too hot to continue working. So, the two of you decide to move the table underneath a shady tree and play a simple game of cards to pass the time. The two of you make idle chit-chat while Abigail deals with Jack and Arthur sleeps in his tent.

“He’s been in there a while, hasn’t he?” You ask John, tipping your head down to point to Arthur’s tent.

John turns in his seat to look, leaning an elbow on the back of his chair, “Don’t think I’ve seen him walk out of there since we came back,” he replies. The two of them had returned to camp alongside Javier yesterday afternoon. Arthur didn’t seem too pleased with their recent score, muttering something about stolen horses and selling them for close to nothing.

Still idly shuffling the cards, you continue to stare in Arthur’s direction.

The flaps of his tent are rolled down, isolating him from the rest of camp. A gust of wind gently flutters the hanging canvas, giving you only a small glance into his tent. You see for a moment that he’s laid on his cot, curled up on his side and facing the wagon wall.

“I think them cards are shuffled enough.” John teases. You let out a shy chuckle in response and lay the deck of cards on the center of the table.

Throughout your game, you couldn’t help but occasionally peek over John’s shoulder to Arthur’s tent, waiting to see him step out. Everyone else seems to be oblivious to the fact that Arthur’s been in there all day. Or perhaps, they are aware and don’t think anything of it.

You and John continue to play for a couple of hours, switching to different games periodically as the sun drops to mid-afternoon. The heat has become unbearable, and the shade of the tree seems to offer no comfort as the temperatures have now reached their peak. Everyone is either walking sluggishly across camp or sitting themselves down at the lake to cool their feet in the water.  
You decide to take a break from the games and grab a drink of water. Walking to the lake, you realize Arthur hasn’t woken since his return, so he must not have had anything to eat or drink in this heat. So you take it upon yourself to fill your canteen with fresh water.

Quickly glancing over at Dutch, who sits distracted inside his own shelter with a book in hand, you walk over to Arthur’s tent. The soft grass muffles your light steps.

Reaching the front of his tent, you call softly, “Arthur?”

No answer.

You draw back the hanging canvas ever so slightly, letting in the most minuscule of light.

Arthur doesn’t flinch from his cot, still laying curled up on his side. His gun belt and satchel lay haphazardly on the ground nearby. He sleeps soundly, still fully clothed and his suspenders drawn down to his hips. Meanwhile, you stand there with one foot in and the other still out, debating with yourself whether you should wake him up or leave.

Hardly a sound comes from Arthur besides his low breathing. You’ve never seen him this serene. He’s always busied himself with work, running back and forth through camp or riding off on an errand. Always the busy-body Arthur is, never taking time to rest.

Come to find out during your friendship, Arthur does this on purpose to keep his dark thoughts away. He confessed to you one day that he often gets plagued with depressing thoughts when he’s alone. So he keeps himself busy to keep the demons at bay. Writing in his journal gives him an outlet to relieve himself, but he still struggles with it. He knows he’s more than welcome to come to you when he has these bouts of sadness, but he doesn’t often take you up on it. And that pains you. No one should have to suffer through this alone.

At that, you step inside and kneel at his bedside. The humid air is stifling in the small confines of his tent. You raise your hand and rest it on his shoulder, giving it a gentle rub to coax him from his slumber.

“Arthur? Honey?” You coo, feeling the tension return to his muscles as he wakes.

He adjusts his head on his pillow, but doesn’t turn to you. Laying himself still, he continues facing the wall of his wagon and lets out a deep, troubled sigh.

You ask him softly, “You ok?”

He doesn’t respond, only shrugging his shoulders in uncertainty. Your lips tighten and you continue rubbing his upper arm in hopes of comforting him.

You talk to him, “You’ve been asleep for a good while. You want something to eat?”

A moment passes and Arthur takes in another deep sigh, as if he’s struggling to articulate what he wants. He adjusts and curls his legs further up and tucks in his elbows.

“No,” he mumbles lowly, the pain is thick in his voice.

Calmly biting your lower lip, you reply with a sympathetic, “Okay.” You place your canteen on his nightstand and rest both hands on his body, leaving one on his bare forearm and the other on his back. While rubbing small circles on his back, you can feel the sweat permeating through his shirt.

You ask again, much more softly, “You wanna talk about it?”

He responds quietly, “No.”

“Okay.”

Rather than try to persuade him to get up, you suggest he take off the warm layers of his clothes so he can sleep better. You help him start by removing his boots while he still lays unmoving. Next, you gently roll him over to help unbutton his shirt. Arthur takes over and shrugs off his shirt to toss to the ground, his eyes finally meeting yours. Once the eye contact is made, he quickly averts his gaze down. But in that moment, you could see his tired, half-lidded eyes. His crestfallen expression pricks at your heart like sharp needles.

Left in just his union suit and pants, Arthur lays back down and returns to his former position. You stay with him, returning to softly rub his back, moving up his neck to the back of his head and running the tips of your fingers through his thick hair.

“Need me to get you anything?” You ask him.

“No…just wanna be alone for a while.” He answers tiredly.

You hum and give him a gentle pat on his shoulder before rising up off your knees. Arthur stays silent and quickly goes back to sleep once you reach the entrance of his tent. Before stepping out, you look back to him and watch his eyelids close, his forehead still wrinkled with stress.

…………………………

Arthur continued to sleep the rest of the afternoon and well through the night. Any errands he was being called for the next day, you asked to take over for him. You’d state that he’s sick and needed to rest. The only person who understood your fib was Miss Grimshaw. She didn’t need to believe that Arthur’s under the weather. She’s well aware of what he’s done for the camp, how hard he works, and how terribly he suffers internally.

“He needs a break,” she’d say, promising you that she’d deal with Dutch for you.

The day had gone by so fast as you were constantly kept busy with Arthur’s work. You spent the morning doing his chores and the rest of the day robbing a stagecoach with Josiah. It was indeed a productive day, as you learned about the new contact Arthur made with the teller at the post office. Josiah made sure to put in a good word for you to the man.

Dinner was already done by the time you returned, and lucky for you there was enough food left to fill one final bowl. You scarfed it down while panning the campground for any sign of Arthur, hoping he had improved.

Catching Grimshaw crossing your path, you greet her and ask, “Has Arthur been up at all?”

She furrows her brow in thought as she replays the events of the day, “I think I only seen him come out once…a little while ago. He grabbed himself a bowl and sulked back to his tent…Poor man,” she tuts. “He needs to snap out of it.”

You thank her and walk towards Arthur’s tent after donating to the fund box. You saved a gold pocket watch especially for him: engraved with a scene of a hunting dog—a spaniel—leaping through tall grass in the pursuit of fowl.

“Arthur. It’s me.” You warn before stepping inside.

He doesn’t greet you as you step in, and you notice his bowl of stew is left to sit on his nightstand. Most likely cold, it appears Arthur only took a few bites before abandoning it.

Arthur had returned to lie on his cot, now awake and staring blankly up at the ceiling with one arm draped across his forehead, covering one eye.

You ask him, “Feelin’ any better?”

He shrugs in response before sitting himself up. Those aquamarine eyes have now turned gray from the internal storm.

He answers you, “Not really.”

Before Arthur can protest, you march over to his cot and sit down where his head once laid, moving his pillow out of the way. You intensely stare into those tired eyes of his, non-verbally commanding him to explain himself to you.

Beckoning him with open arms, you order him, “C’mere,” and gently grasp at a shoulder to make him rest his head on your lap. “I’ll stay here all night until you tell me what’s wrong, Arthur. Obviously, you’re not well.”

Too exhausted to disobey, Arthur accepts the refreshing cool touch of your fingers through his hair. His light brunette locks are coarse with dirt and grime, and you untangle his shaggy curls at the nape of his neck. Arthur had enjoyed the feeling of your skin caressing his. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of your skirt below his cheek. The silky cotton still holds a faint smell of soap, mixed with the earthy clay of Lemoyne, and the musk of your horse. Distracted by your caress, Arthur mindlessly rubs his thumb across your knee, feeling the fabric of your skirt rub against it. He wishes he had asked you to stay with him earlier, to hold him in your comforting embrace while he sleeps. Perhaps the feeling of being in your arms would silence the nightmares that plague him in his sleep.

Another minute passes until Arthur finally speaks with a raspy voice.

“Just don’t feel right,” he says with a solemn furrow of his brow, “My head hasn’t been right these past few days, and I’m tired.”  
He breathes a deep sigh, “It just…don’t seem like it’s worth it no more. All this runnin’ around. And I feel like I’m losin’ my mind…I get so angry. Even over little things that don’t matter. I lose control. I shot a couple o’ raiders outside town, just ‘cause they said somethin’ about my horse. I coulda kept on goin’. But seein’ ‘em just ate me up inside. So I shot ‘em both and kept on ridin’.”

Brushing your fingers through his hair, you silently encourage him to continue as you’re unsure of what to say.

Arthur hesitates, fluttering his eyes closed for a moment to take in the soothing touch of your fingertips, “Sometimes I wonder if I’d be better off…” he pauses to steal a glance at you to see if you’re still listening, “somewhere else.”

Your hands stop and you rest them atop his head, looking down into his eyes, “What’d’you mean?”

Arthur realizes he’s said too much and shakes his head, “Nothin’. Don’t worry about it. Forget I said anythin.” He says while waving a hand.

“Arthur,” you say with a firm, yet loving tone—like that of a caring mother. “Tell me. What do you mean you’d be ‘better off somewhere else’?” You ask.

Should he tell you? He wonders. What would you think of him? He doesn’t want to burden you with these thoughts. They’re far too morbid to share with you. Arthur just wants to shake these thoughts away and only focus on your light; your untainted good nature. How is it such a pure woman managed to fall with this group of murderous bandits?

Your cool voice interrupts his thoughts, “Arthur?”

He looks up to your face, the crease of your forehead wrinkled in worry. Your eyes calmly stare into his. Those eyes that could stare down a stalking wolf with their unyielding gaze. The same eyes that cause his heart to flip when you watch him work, and cause it to nearly burst when they squint in laughter.

“I think sometimes I’d be better off dead…better for everyone, in fact.” Arthur confides. He reveals himself to you like revealing a deep wound he’s tried to heal on his own for so long. It never closes, it only festers and worsens.

Your heart rate suddenly rises at his confession. You had known he struggled with a deep sadness for so long, but never has it crossed your mind that it could be this bad. For that, you feel guilty for not catching it sooner. A deep regret seeps into your bones at your selfishness. Now, you desperately don’t want to let him go.

“Surely you don’t mean that?” You ask, nearly begging him to redact his statement.

“I’m a bad man, (Y/N).” He replies, “I can’t change. All I’m good fer is killin’ people. Beatin’ poor men for money. And robbin’ innocent folk…There’s no place fer me in this world.”

Your heart burns at this discovery. Oh, how wrong he is. There’s always been a place for him in your heart. To think of him gone by his own hand, it makes you sick to your stomach. Suddenly, tears well in your eyes and run down your cheek.

“Listen to me, Arthur.” You pick up his head, sliding off his cot and kneeling in front of him. He sits up, knees apart and hands clasped in between them. You grasp at them and hold tightly. “You mean something to me. Y’know that? You’re a valuable member of this gang.”

Arthur shakes his head in a scoff but you carry on. You state, “Yes, you’ve done bad things, but haven’t we all? No one is every truly good or truly bad, Arthur. Think about all you’ve done for everyone here. You’ve gone out of your way to get everyone what they asked for. You work harder than anyone else, you hardly complain, and frankly…you’re the best uncle to Jack I’ve seen out of every man here.”  
That last point brought a chill to Arthur’s chest, making him drop his head in shame. 

“What would happen to Jack if you weren’t here?” You ask him, knowing how deep in his heart you’ve gone with the mention of that sweet boy. The memory of his own son now gone causes his heart to ache; his breathing becomes heavy and erratic, nearing a panic attack. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says in a hushed voice. “I shouldn’t have said those things. It was selfish of me.” 

“No, Arthur.” you reassure him, squeezing his hands tighter and leaning closer to him. His shirt is stained with sweat and dirt, his finger nails chipped and filthy. The dry red dust of Lemoyne clay still clings to his forearm hair. The man must not have bathed since he left. 

You speak softly, “It’s okay. Everyone thinks these bad thoughts. That call of the void, it lives in all of us. Including me…and you know what keeps me from doing it?”

Gazing into your eyes, he asks, “What?”

“The fear of leaving you behind.” you confess. Arthur must’ve known by now your feelings for him, as you began to grow closer within the past year. But never have you declared how deep those feelings went; how passionately you love him. 

Arthur’s eyes grow wide at your admission. He didn’t know people this close to him felt this way, least of all you.  
Raising a hand to Arthur’s cheek, you look into those glassy eyes. The whites of his eyes are now bloodshot. He leans into your palm, and you hold the weight of his head steady in your hand: a reminder to him that you’ll always support him, always be there for him. 

“Arthur…I’m glad you told me. It’s good to let these things out…to talk about it.” you state. His gaze is cast downwards, still ashamed but leaning into the reassuring comfort of your hand. His mind can be at rest for at least a moment while in your hold. 

You encourage him, now placing both hands on his cheeks, holding him still, “Promise me, when you get these thoughts that’ll you come and talk to me. I won’t tell no one else. It can just be you and me. We can get through this together.” 

Arthur’s confidence is restored slightly at your little speech, and he abruptly wraps his arms around your shoulders. You suck in a sharp breath at this sudden embrace, his body heat quickly warming you. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you rest your head in the crook of his neck and shoulder, brushing your nose against his warm skin above his shirt collar. The hairs at the nape of his neck stand against the rush of your breath upon his skin. 

He whispers, “Thank you,” as he burrows his nose within your hair. 

Picking up your head, you whisper in his ear, “You’re welcome,” before pressing a light kiss to his cheek, unable to resist the temptation. 

The two of you kiss in the solace of each other’s embrace, uninterrupted in the privacy of his tent. His plump lips fit perfectly against yours, and the stubble of his growing mustache scrapes against your upper lip as he tilts his head. The tips of your noses bump as you both adjust your heads and feel each other’s lips against the other’s. Breaking for just a moment to catch your breath, you press your forehead against his. Arthur holds your hand in his, both palms gripping tightly. 

“You know what makes me feel better when I’m down?” you ask him.

“What?”

“A nice hot bath.” you hint. Arthur smirks and realizes what you mean by it. He suddenly remembers he’s been sweating in this tent for two days and can’t recall the last time he washed himself. 

You tempt him, “How about we head to the hotel? Take our time and talk on the way there, and I’ll buy you a bath.” 

The thought of a soothing bath brings a smile to Arthur’s lips. If that’s one thing he can manage to do today, that’d be great. 

Patting the top of your hand, he agrees, “Okay.”


End file.
